


A Rather Short Series of Disastrous Events (or the Trio of Unfortunate Circumstances the Reader finds Themselves In)

by MistressofMisfortune



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Biting, Chapter 2 onwards, Choking, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Do not read this if any of the tags offend you, Dubious Consent, F/F, Face-Fucking, First part leads up to the rape, Forced Orgasm, Graphic Rape Warning, I won't reply to comments of hate, I'll tag as I go, Mental Health Issues, Mind Control, Possible Character Death, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Esteem Issues, She fucking loathes you, Slapping, Suicidal Thoughts, The mental health is brief in the start, Vaginal Fingering, Wanda is not nice in this, You're not confident, there will be rape, this is fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-24 01:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18159803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressofMisfortune/pseuds/MistressofMisfortune
Summary: You meet Wanda Maximoff three times before you die.





	A Rather Short Series of Disastrous Events (or the Trio of Unfortunate Circumstances the Reader finds Themselves In)

**Author's Note:**

> Please Please Please Please Please Please Please Please Please Please Please Please Please READ the tags before reading this fic. It is not a happy story. Wanda is not NICE in this. She hates you. She wants nothing but your pain and your blood on her hands. Set during Age of Ultron. Wanda has issues. She wants revenge on Tony Stark. You're her revenge. 
> 
> I've deliberately cut the first chapter up so it's a warm up for people - don't want to scare you all away from the first chapter now do I. 
> 
> I have anxiety and depression - I've tried to kill myself countless of times and I have scars from self harm. I don't want any accusations that I don't know what I'm talking about because I fucking do. 
> 
>  
> 
> If SpiderBites reads this, I LOVE YOU.

When life starts to suck (and let’s not be shy now, we’re all friends here; it does that a lot, doesn’t it?) you almost always find yourself teetering on the edge of oblivion, with little to no desire to ever return from it. You’ve always known that your thoughts are dangerous - deadly even in some cases - but it doesn’t stop you from having them. The demons in your head are the only real friends you have ever needed, anyway. Or so they tell you. You don’t need to worry about your mom’s side of your family finding out either; you’re glad that they rarely cast you a second glance these days.  They practically ignore you. But when they do notice you, it’s their unwanted interference and meddling in your life that is always enough to make sure you bite your tongue. As for your dad? He’s too busy being Iron Man to notice. No. You can do this alone. 

Without them.

Without  _ him.  _

Without anyone.

So one night after you’ve happily consumed a whole bottle of wine, you take to the internet. Within seconds of typing into Google, the labels attached to your search topic are quick to make their appearance, standing out amongst the other words as if they have neon lights and signs pointing at them; shouting, This is you! This is you!

Depression. 

Suicidal. 

Vulnerable. 

Self Harmer. 

The list goes on without you. 

Your eyes have now landed on the News that waits patiently on another tab beside your search. Even though it’s muted, you can read the headline as pictures of the near demolished building fade to and from the screen: Sokovia Lab Explosion Due To The Avengers - How Many Have Died? 

Your eyes narrow at the word regarding your father’s superhero group and it’s only when you see a picture of him in his newest Iron Man model, do you make yourself look away and pick up your nearly empty wine glass. As you drain it, you miss the pictures of a pair of twins as they appear on the screen - a woman with dark hair and a glare that could cut steel, her brother with unnatural white hair and an unnerving smile - the headline now stating: Enhanced Maximoff Twins Escape, Are We Safe? 

You end up slamming your laptop shut, harder than you had wanted, yet you toss it to the empty sofa cushion regardless. You weren’t expecting to see him. It was only meant to be a small argument, easily mendable; yet here you are, nearly two months later and the two of you have yet to utter a single word to one another. At least you know where you get your stubbornness from. 

You can’t stand the thought of being categorized, to be labelled and then put on medication that you don’t need because you have the occasional dark thought. 

Who doesn’t? 

You can easily control them without the aid of a prescribed drug. But you don’t shoot the idea down completely. Only when things get worse, will you  _ think  _ about seeing professional help. Until then, handle this. You’ve been doing so for years. 

This time when you take to the internet again, you close the News tab and search coping mechanisms instead. 

* * *

The trial and error process in finding one that works takes a fair few weeks and it proves to be an exhausting experience. You grow irritable as each one fails; but when you’re close to giving up, by complete fluke or pure luck, you stumble across one that sticks. There’s just something so therapeutic you find in walking around outside during the night with only your dorm room keys and some cash in your pockets to accompany you. Completely disconnected from the world. From your dad. Was it the safest mechanism? Probably not. But nothing bad has happened yet and you know the route you take like the back of your hand - so what’s the harm?

* * *

The night belonging to May 6th is surprisingly warm. It catches you off guard after spending all day cooped up in your dorm room with your bleak red curtains drawn to block out any light. You’re often asked why you like to sit in the dark so much and truth be told, it just really calms you. Especially when you’ve got one of your favorite Yankee candles lit too. Once settled under your quilt, you could really watch the little flame dance for hours.

You stand there, just outside of the halls, reconsidering your outfit choice. You love what you have on. It provides more comfort - a familiarity you’ve brought from your mom’s house - than it does style. Not that you care. But you just know that you will quickly become too hot during your walk; and the thought of trekking back up the four flights of stairs to go back to your room, which passes the communal kitchen you and your 12 other flatmates share; where you know Tara - your newly established bully - is waiting with two of her friends. The entire process just doesn’t appeal to you at all. So, instead, you settle for pulling your college jumper off and wrap it around your waist, exposing your shoulders to the outside world for the first time in months, thanks to the tank top you’re wearing. It’s nerve wracking - the sheer thought enough to make you nearly pull your jumper back on, but you make yourself stop and breath; retelling yourself the things your old friends have told you countlessly before:  _ There’s nothing there...Trust me, I’d tell you if you had anything there...If you complain one more time, I will throw something at you… _

The last one makes you smile. However, despite what they’ve said, you can’t help but get really paranoid on a daily basis. You just can’t seem to stop worrying about the tiny blackheads that you know litter your shoulders. 

For the moment however, you force yourself to swallow down your teetering anxiety and you make yourself set off; turning left down the street towards the oh-so-familiar route you take on a nearly weekly basis. 

* * *

The crunching of leaves under your feet is an instant calm to your ears and you find yourself slowing into a gentle walk; passing by a couple as they walk hand in hand, whispering sweet nothings into each others ears. It’s a cute moment that you get to witness. One that you’ve not had the chance to yet experience. You find yourself stopping to turn so you can watch them walk on down the gravel pathway, the girl’s head resting on her partner’s shoulder until they follow the walkway around and vanish from your sight. Maybe one day you will find your significant other. Perhaps they’re waiting patiently for your arrival and the only person stopping the inevitable meet, is yourself.

You set off walking again, pulling the sleeves of your sweater tighter around your waist as you go. Three minutes later, after you bump into a woman with brown hair and eyes that you get mesmerized by, you’re lost in your thoughts completely. You walk in a daze, an almost dreamlike state and your feet take you a route as if you’ve walked it plenty of times before. Only, a tiny voice from the back of your head tells you differently. 

“Come on, Y/N!” You blink and suddenly a 7 year old you is standing before you, hand outstretched, grinning wildly. “I want to show you something.” 

A moment passes before you take it, gripping onto her small fingers; thumb tracing over the same mole you’ve still got today. The younger you leads you off the pathway, pulling you gently towards a row of abandoned houses that have seen better days. The windows are boarded up by thick wooden planks, nailed firmly into position. While some hang loosely from where they were once allocated - by the weather or vandals, you can’t decide - the front door, or rather, what once resembled a front door; has near enough vanished. Most of the remains have long since vanished and as you’re guided through the threshold, your foot kicks part of its rotting flesh; chips of blue paint sprinkling down to the floor. 

“Not much further. You’ll love it!”

“Why…” Your words feel heavy in your mouth, almost like you spooned in a mouthful of gooey caramel and you’re trying to chew through it. You blink slowly, head aching. Your vision blurs and before you know it, you’re in a room that once could have been the living room and you’re entirely, and completely alone. 

Your hand is still extended before you yet not it only clutches air. What was it your were holding? Your memory is fuzzy, you can’t remember but you know it’s right there…

Something slams behind you, scraping a frightened yelp from your throat as you turn around, eyes wide in fear. The door to the room you’re in is now closed - had it once been open? - and you are quick to run towards it, hands gripping the door handle and after one firm tug and a push, you find out the door is jammed. Or locked. Perhaps you’re not as alone as you thought. 

You rattle the handle more times than is needed, hoping that by sheer luck it will just open and set you free but it doesn’t. It barely even budges. 

“No, no, no, no, no!” 

You throw yourself back and turn around a few times, muttering a few curse words as you take in your bleak surroundings. The room is barren, unlived in for years yet the couch seemed in near perfect condition thanks to the plastic polythene cover that was draped over its maroon casing. Upon further inspection, you spot gashes in the cushions, some padding from the insides spilling out like the innards of animals when they’re being gutted. A knife caused them. Penknife or kitchen knife you can’t be certain but the person who caused the couch’s wounds probably did it deliberately. If there is any blood left over it you can’t see it. 

Forgotten wallpaper hangs from the walls, damp spots blossoming in some areas. Cobwebs coat corners while dust coats the floor and as you run to the windows, your feet leave marks. While the glass has long since gone, the 2 by 4 plywood remains firm in its place and no matter how many times you try to claw your way free and pick the nails out, you just can’t manage it. 

“Fuck!” You want to cry but you don’t let the tears fall. “Hello? Hello! Please, is anyone there? I can’t get out! Help!”

Silence is your own reply and you slam your forehead down against the wood. 

“Shit,” You turn around, “shitshitshitshit -” Your voice abruptly cuts off when you spot the outline of another person lurking in the shadows. They weren’t there a second ago, couldn’t have been. You would have seen them. Or would you? 

At first you feel relieved. You’re not alone in this god forsaken place; they might be able to help you get out, so you can return to your dorm and forget any of this happened. You take a small step forwards. 

“Can you help me?”

But when you go to step forward again, you swear your eyes are playing cruel tricks on you. Scarlet waves flow and weave around the figure and their eyes glow cruelly in the same color. The hairs on the nape of your neck stand tall. You go from being relieved to feeling the icy tickle of dread trickle down your spine. 

_ This isn’t safe...danger...danger...run! _

You back up, once, twice...until you bump into the boarded window. The figure finally moves and steps into the light. It’s a woman - an undeniable drop dead gorgeous woman - and your eyes lower to her hands; watching as red swirls around her fingers.

“If...if this is some kind of joke --” You swallow thickly, desperate to get some moisture down your dry throat. “ -- it isn’t funny.” 

The woman’s eyes narrow, her eyes glinting. “This isn’t a joke.” 

The wood behind you is torn from the window, a sickening sound as it’s ripped free from its home and you only just manage to move out of the way before it soars across the room and collides with the locked door. You let out a frightened yelp, legs turning into jelly and when you see her walk forward, you find your feet are glued to the floor. You will them to move but they won’t. 

She’s directly in front of you then, slender hand wrapped tightly around your throat and your eyes bulge when you feel the last of your air scrape free from your lungs. The woman moves you back effortlessly; your own feet stumbling over one another while she remains calm and collected and it isn’t until your back connects with the hard surface behind you, do your hands seem to wake up. They clamp onto her wrist yet no matter how hard you try to pry her from your neck, she doesn’t budge. If anything, your actions make her squeeze tighter. 

“Please…” 

Before you can stop her - not that you could - she leans in and you feel the tip of her nose press against the skin just below your ear. She inhales deeply. 

“I was hoping we wouldn’t have to rush this...but time, my dear Y/N, is not on our side.” She moves back to your face and nips at your nose with her teeth. “You understand that, don’t you?”

You shake your head, blinking rapidly so tears roll down your cheeks. 

“I…” You wheeze our, “p-please.”

“Now normally,” the woman continues, as if you had never spoken. While her hand remains around your throat, it not longer grips you tightly and you’re allowed, finally, to breath. She taps your lips with her finger. “I’d cover this pretty little mouth right up because screaming is just so annoying. Don’t you agree? It irritates me to no end...especially when it’s right down your ear…” The woman pauses to take a deep breath to calm herself, yet you still watch as redness taints her eyes. “But tonight. Tonight; I want to hear you fucking howl,  _ Stark. _ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Comment what you think, I'll update ASAP.


End file.
